Dents

I hear her coming from afar, her voice is shrill, scratched and full of dents. Parents with kids fill the street, it’s school time. Everyone can hear the words she throws into her phone, but they don’t exist for her at the moment. Her despair hangs from her shoulders while her feet keep walking. Big steps. Her little son, with the blue backpack neatly on his back, tries to keep up. She doesn’t look back to see if he succeeds, and the little boy crosses the road without looking, his eyes only on his mom. A cyclist stops for him, thankfully. She is now almost shouting: I don’t believe that you will ever love, if you keep on doing things like this!